We’ve survived this place together—always—but the responsibility for keeping everything running, keeping us fed and protected and alive, became mine a long time ago. I took it on because someone had to. Because protecting Charlotte is the one thing I’ve never had to think twice about.
And sitting here now, I realize I don’t know how to protect her from this.
I keep my emotions under control, but underneath them something cold is spreading through me.
This isn’t a storm I can prepare for or an injury I can stitch closed. I can’t build my way around it. Can’t force it into submission through routine or planning or sheer effort.
I can’t cut it out. I can’t stop it. I can’t even see it.
Everything I know how to rely on becomes useless the second it touches this.
I’ve handled everything the island has thrown at us. Hunger. Infection. Injury. Death.
This feels different.
Because for the first time in years, I have absolutely no idea what to do.
And all at once, I understand what it really means to have no control at all.
I pull her into me. She comes easily, like she always does, fitting against my chest without hesitation. I wrap my arms around her and hold her a little tighter than usual.
She stays quiet, waiting.
“You’re going to be okay,” I say.
My voice doesn’t shake. It’s the same tone I’ve used every time something went wrong out here—the one that leaves no room for panic or uncertainty. The one that states things like facts until they become easier to believe.
I know how to make certainty sound real.
“Dane—”
“We’ll figure it out.” I press my mouth briefly against her hair. “I’m getting you off this island. And when I do, someone’s going to fix this.”
She’s quiet for a second before speaking again. Softer this time against my chest. “You don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do.”
The answer comes instantly. No hesitation at all.
She doesn’t argue with me after that. Instead, her arms tighten around me, and I feel the trust in it. Not blind trust. Charlotte’s never been blind about anything.
I keep holding her until her breathing finally starts to slow. Until the tension eases from her shoulders. Until she settles as much as she’s capable of settling tonight.
Only then do I let myself feel the rest of it.
It hits hard, all at once, heavier than anything I’ve allowed myself to sit with in years. Worse than anything the island has thrown at us before, because every other disaster came with something to do. Something physical. Something I could fight or build or solve.
This doesn’t.
There’s nothing to repair. Nothing to outwork. Nothing to force into place through planning or effort.
Just this thing growing inside her while I sit here completely useless against it.
I’ve kept her alive through everything else.
This is the first time I genuinely don’t know how.
My arms tighten around her again.
